Ill Gotten Gain

By Ralph Jarrells

Woe to the man who betrays. It would be better for him if he had never been born.

Thomas Edward Garrett is an outskirter among the social and political elite in his hometown of Charleston, South Carolina, a fact that grates on his soul and claws at his mind. He is wealthy...enough. He is handsome...enough. He is well-connected...enough. He is acceptable...enough. But he fails to possess the one thing essential for full acceptance. He does not have a Charleston pedigree. Garrett’s life takes an unexpected turn when he discovers a treasure of unimaginable value. But among the artifacts in this incredible “find” is an unusual box that contains some very dangerous coins.

Suddenly, everything he desires – wealth, power, notoriety, celebrity, women – are his for the taking. And a very different power is clawing at Garrett’s mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordCrafts Press
• Release date: Oct 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370105595

Book preview

CONTENTS

Prophesy

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

Prophesy

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

Prophecy

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

Prophecy

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

Prophecy

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

Prophesy

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

Prophesy

CHAPTER 51

Epilogue 1

Epilogue 2

Appendix 1

Appendix 2

Thanks

About the Author

You will devote their ill-gotten gain to the Lord.

Micah 4:13

Cursed is the man who is hung on a tree.

Galatians 3:13

Prophesy

Running … running … running down the ancient street. The uneven stones turning and twisting my ankles. The pain is unbearable. My calves and thighs are on fire. The people looking ... no, staring. All around me, hideous faces. Their ugly mouths wide open, screaming. Their stinking breaths hot in my face. Shrill voices fill my ears, their hate a living thing, reaching out, stabbing at me, looking to destroy me.

I run blindly through the masses. My breath comes in gasps, the pounding of my heart is deafening. But run away I must. Run faster. I have to escape. I must get away from them.

Away from here.

Gasping. Gasping for air. Breath … ragged in my throat.

Why me? Why me? I demand. What have I done? I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing, you hear. Nothing! I love my Lord. He’ll come out on top of this. You’ll see. My Lord is the next King of the Jews.

But I know, I know better.

Hot air dries my mouth, burns my lungs. My heart races.

God help me, please help me.

But, no one answers. No one is there to help. No one.

There. There is a stable. I’ll lose them through it.

The pleasant, earthy smell of hay mixed with the stench of animal dung makes breathing even more difficult. Hiding in a stall, I peer out to see if they have followed.

No one is there.

The rope. I’ll need the rope.

Running out through the back of the stable I grab the rope. No time to think now; later, when I’m safe.

My feet are torn and bleeding. All I can feel is the pain. I can’t stop running. I must get away. They’re still there. I know they are, even though I can’t see them. I hear them. Their chanting echoes in my ears.

You! You!

They’re there. I know they’re there. All around me, pointing their bony fingers.

Outside the city now. That way, through the olive grove. That’s the way to escape. The brush and small trees will hide me.

Sharp branches and thorns tear at my skin. So much blood. I’m tired. But no stopping. I must run; must disappear among the trees. I still hear them. Their anger and hatred stings like burning arrows piercing my back.

Oh God, I’m so tired. My legs are numb with the pain. Fatigue invades my bones, making me weaker. But I must escape.

My face is covered with dust and blood, mixing with the sweat that is burning my eyes. My head is splitting. And the voices, those damned voices are still there, getting louder.

I must get away. There’s a turn in the path, an exposed root.

Oh, no!

The fall rips the breath from my lungs. As I scramble to my feet, I stumble and fall again. Screaming in agony, I know I can’t stop. I must get away from them. Staggering through the heavy undergrowth my mind reels. My vision blurs.

Rest. My body cries for rest. Pain screams from every muscle, every joint and the voices get louder.

The acrid, almost antiseptic smell of the olive grove digs into my nostrils. It’s a comforting, cleansing odor.

There. The tree. Now I see my escape. It’s the only way.

As I climb on the stump, I look back. Curse them, why are they still after me? I don’t see them, but they’re there. I know they are. Why won’t they show themselves?

Stop it, I scream. Stop it. Leave me alone. I didn’t mean it.

I must be free of them. Throwing the rope over the branch, I know it’s the only way out. No one will blame me. It’s my absolution.

The rope feels rough on my neck, rough yet comforting.

This is it … my way out … a way to quiet those cursed voices, the pounding in my ears.

Jump!

Seconds of uncertainty followed by the jerk of reality. Struggling to get free, but … No, don’t struggle, I tell myself. This is the means of escape.

The pounding is still in my ears, the fire in my lungs, but the voices are fainter now. Fainter even yet. The light is fading, too.

Finally, yes, the voices are gone!

I’ve done it. I’ve escaped … at last. No more struggling.

Calm approaches. A warm, comforting darkness envelops me like a soft, warming blanket … but … there’s no air. I can’t breathe.

Choking, gasping for even a breath of air

Can’t breathe, I try to yell.

Something’s wrong. It’s too dark. The voices, they’re returning. No. No. Not again. No.

Please, no! Oh God ...

CHAPTER 1

Thomas Edward Garrett III struggled to awaken and found himself in a cold, inky blackness ... as black and chilled as the last feelings of death that lingered from his oh, too real dream. Straining his eyes, not really sure where he was, he tried to focus on something, anything, but he might as well have kept his eyes shut.

In those first moments of disoriented consciousness, the fear that gripped his chest and left him gasping for breath assured him that death was imminent. The moments that followed seemed like an eternity. He felt the icy fingers of death slip around his heart and begin squeezing the life from his body.

A dream. Only a dream, he told himself as he struggled to move his arms. Yes. Only a dream, he said aloud as he began to feel the life awaking, but he felt his neck just to be sure.

Thank God. Softer, just a dream.

As he moved to turn on the bedside light, he felt the soaking wet bed sheets. His body was wet and clammy; his hair, wet and matted to his face and head. It may have been just a dream but at this moment Garrett wasn’t all too sure.

He groped for the light on the bedside table, knocking papers and books to the floor. Cursing, he managed to find the switch. The metallic click echoed through the room. The shaded light cast a warm, somewhat comforting glow, reducing the inky blackness to shadows.

God, what a nightmare, he heard himself say aloud.

His tongue, feeling like a clump of wool, moved sluggishly in his dry mouth. Stumbling into the bathroom, he yanked on the cold-water faucet, splattering water everywhere.

Garrett didn’t care.

The shock of the icy water on his face helped to shake the lingering effects of his brush with death, albeit through his dream. Pausing, somewhat more awake, he looked in the mirror and groaned.

Jesus Christ, Garrett. Look at yourself, he said loudly, you look like hell. Ashen face, bloodshot eyes, those overnight bags under your eyes. You look awful. Get hold of yourself. Good God man, it was only a dream.

The words did little to shake the sense of death that lingered deep in the core of his being. Every nerve in his body was alive as if charged with tiny electrodes. His hands trembled like they would had he awakened from a three-day drunk. Shaking his head to clear the haze that clouded his thinking, he gulped down some water from his cupped hands.

God! My throat hurts, he thought.

Hope I’m not getting a cold, he said aloud, an effort to find some plausible reason to the lingering dread of the all too real dream.

He splashed more water on his face and walked back into the bedroom. His bed looked particularly uninviting even though it was still an early morning hour. Knowing that continued efforts to go back sleep would be futile, Garrett slipped into his jogging shorts and t-shirt. It was 4:30 a.m. as he made his way downstairs and into the cool autumn morning.

Jogging down the uneven cobble stones of Church Street brought back momentary flashes of his dream. An early morning fog hung closely to the light along the street shrouding their attempts to pierce the early morning darkness. The filtered rays cast a surreal glow to the street, its buildings and the entire setting. Even the smiling military faces painted on the fire hydrants along Church Street took on the menacing look of some evil militia.

Shit! I thought I left this place in my dream, Garrett’s words echoed off the silence, as he hurried his pace leaving Church Street.

His normal jogging route took him down Church Street to South Battery. He always ran around White Point Gardens at the Battery, past the old Fort Sumter Hotel and up onto the top of the Battery wall. It was there that he was able to inhale the fresh, ocean breeze. Yes, there was the faint smell of the marshes, an odor that visitors often referred to as the stink of Charleston, but to him and most of the Charleston population, it was the fragrance of home. It always caused his brain to link his conscious mind to warm, nostalgic thoughts of his youth.

Ending his nostalgic pause, he continued his jog down the Battery wall to East Bay Street past some of the most beautiful homes in the city. History dripped from these magnificent structures. Their much-publicized ghosts could fill volumes.

Past Rainbow Row’s multi-colored stand of three story houses, probably the single most photographed and illustrated feature of Charleston, pacing himself, Garrett’s stride was still measured and consistent. Turning onto Broad Street, he passed an array of old-line attorneys’ offices, miscellaneous buildings and St. Michael’s Church. Finishing his morning jog with a sprint down Meeting Street to the South Battery and back to #13 Church Street, Garrett was eager to find his warm shower.

Only slightly winded, Garrett ran up the steps and opened the front door. Bounding up the stairs to his third floor living quarters, he made his way into the bathroom for a shower.

Fifteen minutes of stinging heat in the hot shower and the morning run helped Garrett feel more like himself. The cold bite that ended his shower cleared his head of most of the leftover thoughts of his dream. A vigorous rubdown with a rough towel released the tension from his stiff muscles and made him ready to face the new day.

But, try as he might, he was unable to shake the nagging memories of that horrible dream. Like a chill that reached to the marrow of his bones. Again, looking at himself in the mirror he said, Dammit! It was just a bad dream. That’s all. Just a bad dream. His voice trailed off in volume and confidence. You’ve been working too hard. That’s all. But that will change very soon. Very soon, my man. Very soon.

His voice changed as his confidence began to rise and a broad smile spread from ear to ear.

Very soon, they will know about my treasure. Very soon, I’ll have the respect I deserve. Then everything will change.

Garrett walked across his bedroom and stood at the window that overlooked the Battery. It gave him a strangely titillating feeling, standing there naked, flashing the entire city, even though they couldn’t see him. He posed, shifted, turned, then pressed his cheeks against the window glass. The chilly glass on his bare behind brought a quick end to his discrete exhibition. But, it was a statement, none-the-less.

The fall gardens of Charleston were almost as beautiful as the spring gardens. Looking down from his window he had a view of the back garden of #8 South Battery, now a bed-and-breakfast inn. In this section of town, the back gardens were often the more spectacular than their much-touted front gardens; that was true from Garrett’s view.

Turning back to his room he caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror. At 43, he had kept himself in reasonably good shape. No bulging muscles accented his 5’10" frame but little excess baggage had found its way to his middle, either. Jogging, exercising and forcing himself to stay on a sensible diet were responsible for his present condition. His tendency to put on extra inches where they were least appreciated, especially since he was eating out more often, had become a major problem for Garrett. That, together with his passion for good food had resulted in many mental battles. For Garrett, logic customarily won out over passion.

He began to stare at himself in the mirror. He tried to find something unusual about what he saw. Something that made him special.

Average, he said to himself, simply average, John Edward Garrett, simply average.

His friends had told him that his deep-set, brown eyes with the intriguing flecks of glittering green and gold were his best feature. A straight nose accented his face, a little on the long side, but not too bad. The braces he’d hated so much as a teenager had done their job well. Lips, a little on the thin side, but again, not too bad. All in all, there was nothing about Edward Garrett that would make him stand out in a crowd.

Average, he mumbled as he turned away from the mirror, but that’s changing.

Glancing at the still rumpled bed, a momentary twinge of fear shivered its way down his back. Striding purposefully across the room, he picked up his favorite robe. Slipping into the robe, he decided to begin his day with breakfast. Coffee, eggs and toast, maybe even some bacon.

To hell with the diet, for now, he muttered aloud.

CHAPTER 2

As he waited for the coffee to perk, his mind drifted back over the years of his life. His list of acquaintances in Charleston was long and interesting, many politically and socially positioned. Garrett was, for the most part, considered an outsider. He was born in Charleston to a prominent orthopedic surgeon who, unfortunately for the younger Garrett, was originally from Boston.

Dr. Thomas Edward Garrett II had moved to Charleston with his young wife, Marlene, then 6 months pregnant with their first of many hoped-for children. Thomas Edward Garrett III was born in the same house in which he now lived and operated his antique store. Marlene didn’t live to see her new baby. His birth had been too much for a fragile woman — she died only a few moments after Garrett’s first cry of life.

Garrett’s father did what he could to raise his young son. Early grief over the loss of his much-loved wife resulted in devoting more and more time to his practice. As years passed, this workaholic tendency had become a matter of habit that kept the two Garretts separated. An unexpressed resentment for the young boy was balanced, to some degree, by the elder Garrett’s desire for his son to achieve as he had.

Edward Garrett was an average student, not interested in sports, and spent many hours daydreaming. This lack of achievement caused problems for his father. As a result, disappointment joined with the resentment to drive an even bigger wedge between the two. The young Garrett couldn’t understand why, unlike his friends, he had no mother and little or no time with his father.

Garrett learned to be independent at a young age even though his father provided people to take care of him. Queen Ester, the rotund black housekeeper, a direct descendant of African slaves had retained much of her Geeche accent, lived in the basement. Robert Storey, the combination gardener and handyman, who was white but Geeche from the top of his curly head to the bottom of his flat feet, lived in the carriage house. They became his real family.

Queen Ester had taught him right from wrong, how to keep his room straight, and the polish of a proper young man of Charleston heritage. She policed her training with a yard stick from the hardware store. Her training had proven valuable in the social circles in which he occasionally revolved.

Storey, on the other hand, had taught him some of the earthier things of life. Most of what he learned about sex and the opposite sex came via Storey’s jokes, answers to his questions and Storey’s wonderful collection of nudist magazines. It was through those magazines that Garrett got his first rudimentary road map of a woman’s body. Storey was also the source of many of Garrett’s superstitions.

With the elder Garrett’s death, a little over fifteen years ago, Garrett’s over-riding feeling was one of regret. Not regret at losing his father but regret that he had never measured up to his father’s expectations. It was a cross he continued to bear without recognition.

Dr. Garrett had seen to it that his son did the proper things to be accepted as a part of the Charleston society. He was sent to Porter Gaud, the proper military and educational prep school. Garrett had been accepted and attended the Citadel. He had hated the tough, military discipline and lack of personal independence and had dropped out after only one year.

He finished his business degree at the College of Charleston, the other socially accepted institution of higher learning in Charleston. Nonetheless, he was never really accepted in the social circles since there weren’t three generations of his family in the Charleston Social Registry, a fact he knew and tried to dismiss as unimportant. But, it still nagged him even today.

He could never accept nor understand a social structure where lineage was more important than individual success.

A good antique business had kept him much more than comfortable. It allowed him to travel abroad three or four times a year and keep hours of his choosing. Antiques may be the only thing he shared with his father. Both relished their deep love for antiquity. But even that had not developed into an area of mutual respect prior to Dr. Garrett’s death. It was only a source of competition.

Garrett loved his antiques and the antique business as well. The quality, workmanship and craftsman’s pride was obvious in each of his pieces. As Garrett had often explained his theory to customers, a part of the soul of the craftsman went into each handcrafted piece and remained there. It was something intangible that no mass-produced item could have. Each antique had a history. A stability that was also lacking in modern furniture, art, buildings, or people, for that matter.

He often caught himself fantasizing about the history of a particular piece. What stories could it tell? Who had owned it? What were they like?

Garrett’s antique business was successful primarily due to his hard work and careful selections and his understanding of the tastes of the Charleston bluebloods. As a result, his clientele read like the Charleston social register. The Pringles, the Ravenels, the Tradds, the Pinckneys, the Heywards, the Petigrus to name only a few and many others whose fortunes had long since been exhausted.

Charleston was a place where living in the past was not only practiced but unquestioningly accepted. He had often rented antiques to socialites for their galas so they could keep up appearances — many of them he had bought from them - another discreetly and socially accepted practice. Garrett furnished them what they needed, yet rarely received invitations. He wasn’t sure he would attend even if invited. However, it damn sure would be nice to have the satisfaction of turning them down.

CHAPTER 3

The warming rays of autumn sun splashed into the kitchen and along with the pungent odor of freshly-perked coffee, interrupted his daydreaming. His mixture of coffee and cinnamon sticks added a sweetness to the scent that he liked. As if on cue, the prepared coffee set Garrett into motion. Today was to be a big day and only breakfast stood in the way of his exploring the treasury he knew was there.

Eggs and bacon were cooked in the same pan. What the hell. They’ll be mixed up in my stomach, he thought. He finished eating and stuffed the soiled dishes in the dishwasher. Looking out the kitchen window he saw the siennas, ochers and browns had begun to replace the pinks, reds and greens of spring and summer.

Sunday morning’s lazy pace had its grip on the Charleston denizen as it did on most Sunday’s. Today would be different for Garrett, however. All over town, people were moving about their normal activities and not one single person knew about his treasure.

If they only knew, he mused aloud, if they only knew.

As he slipped into jeans and an old sweatshirt, Garrett went over the events of last evening in his mind ... again. Fate had finally stepped in and smiled with favor on him. He and Storey had been busy digging in the basement to make room for the new vault he was going to build. They had accidentally opened an underground room. He and Storey had been doing the work, themselves, to save money. And then, this. They had no idea what they had found.

For his part, Storey wouldn’t enter the cave-like room — full of haints, he said. Garrett had told him later that there was nothing of importance in the earthen cave; just some old boxes with junk and broken dishes in them. Worthless, he had said.

But what a find!

How long had the room been there? He could only imagine. As the day unfolded he found the trove was full of old trunks and aging wooden boxes. All the items pre-dated the Civil War. Some were certainly much, much older.

One of the smaller trunks was full of gold coins, mostly Spanish doubloons. Another larger trunk contained silver coins. There were other chests, some large, some small, some full, some empty. One unusual greenish chest looked like wood but felt like stone. Since it was empty, it was put aside in favor of more interesting items.

Swords, daggers, and other metal weapons appeared to be in reasonably shape. Wooden relics had, for the most part, survived extremely well since the room had remained watertight.

There was a large number of silver antiques, trays, tea and coffee services, goblets and a variety of individual pieces. He noticed the coveted Revere hallmark on a number of pieces but most of the silver bore much older English hallmarks.

Because of the array of items and their age, the room had obviously been considered a safe place for family treasures during the turbulent years of Civil War Carolina. To fool the invading Yankees, groups of families often pooled their valuables and hid them to protect them from the looting that accompanied the invasion. For whatever reason, the owners had never returned to reclaim their treasures. As for Garrett, he was certain the Find would be the long-awaited vehicle that would carry him, not only to fame and fortune, but also to the acceptance he so desperately sought.

His years of experience and training guided him in his efforts as he began to retrieve, catalog and evaluate the items in the Find, as he had begun to call his new treasure. Many of the items were easy to both identify and establish values. Many others, however, would require specialists to set their true values. He knew he would require some outside help but it was important that very few people know about the Find — certainly, no one in Charleston — except Lee, of course.

He would look for help from New York; London, maybe; Christie’s or Sotheby’s. He knew the credentials had to be impeccable.

That was for later, for now there was much to be done.

It was late afternoon before he stopped his fevered search of the precious articles. Lunch had been forgotten. Even at that, he had adequately catalogued only a small part. This was due partly to the large number of unique articles and partly to his short attention span. He acted more like a child on Christmas morning, jumping from one thing to another, than a well-trained professional taking inventory of valuable antiques.

Dirty and tired from so many hours of bending and being on his knees in the cramped room, Garrett crawled out and slowly stood. Stretching his knotted muscles, he suddenly remembered his luncheon plans with Ashley. He recalled the ringing of the phone while he was working on the treasure. Now, he was sure it had been Ashley trying to find out where he was.

For the moment, the present became more important than the past. Even with his call and a promise of a complete explanation at dinner, Ashley’s tone left Garrett uneasy about his forgetfulness.

CHAPTER 4

Ashley Cooper Barrineau, or Lee as she preferred to be called, was accustomed to Garrett’s somewhat eccentric behavior at times, but never had he been so inconsiderate. She knew plans could change, but no call? That simply wasn’t at all like him. Surely there would be a good reason, just as he had said on the phone.

At 7:00 p.m. sharp, Garrett rang the doorbell. The ride to Poogan’s Porch was short, but the silence was long and heavy. She noticed a guarded nervousness in Garrett that she had not previously seen in him. He was moody at times and that had caused them some problems, but tonight he was different. Could her father have been right after all? True, Garrett was a workaholic — self-centered, at times — introverted, but he had never been spiteful where she was concerned. He had always been considerate, loving. He was a little distant at first, almost shy. But she had sensed that underneath his aloof, erudite demeanor was a gentle and fun-loving heart that simply needed a little encouragement to break out of its shell. And she had been right; at least she thought she had been.

She had argued with her father.

Something’s not right, he had said. He’s never fit in. Neither did his Yankee father. And remember, he couldn’t cut it at the Citadel. A man would have stuck it out.

He always used the Citadel argument. He would never accept her feelings that Garrett was a sensitive, caring person. Her argument that Garrett’s choosing not to put up with the crap at the Citadel did not lessen his manliness fell on deaf ears.

Her father would merely chuckle and tell her, Time will tell, my dear. Time will tell. Would she be wrong and her father right, again? She wasn’t ready to face that.

Arriving at Poogan’s Porch was a relief for both of them. Poogan’s was an old house converted into a restaurant, as was the practice in that section of town. It was, however, deceptively large. The carriage house, servants’ quarters and a courtyard had been connected to the main house and served as additional restaurant seating.

Entering the glassed-in front porch from which Poogan’s Porch got its name, was like entering a tropical garden. Tom Bass, Poogan to his friends, had quite a green thumb and he tended the plants personally. Many guests preferred seating at the tables artistically-placed among the plants on the porch.

Because the people at these tables were the first seen, Garrett preferred to be seated in the Grand Room. Service was better, he had often said. He began requesting a particular table in the Grand Room. It was in the back corner, across from the main entrance. From there you could see everyone entering the restaurant, and be seen as well. It soon became known as his table among the help at Poogan’s, and Tom Bass took note and arranged to seat him there whenever he made reservations.

Bass had furnished the restaurant with top quality antiques, many on loan from Garrett’s shop. Other than the Grand Room, there were five rooms in the main house for serving meals; the Formal Parlor, the Sitting Room, the Dining Room (often used for private parties) the Music Room, and the Library. The Carriage House and Servants Quarters boosted the seating capacity to well over 200. All the rooms were, however, tastefully decorated and comfortably arranged.

Poogan’s was one of Charleston’s better-known restaurants. Like Robert’s, Perdita’s, Henry’s or the Marketplace; but it was quiet, the food was good and the service excellent. In addition, Garrett was treated as if he were the very best customer, and he liked that very much.

Tom, good to see you, Garrett greeted Bass with a warmth reserved for few people other than Lee.

Mr. Garrett. It’s good to see you as well and I am pleased to see you here. Good to see you again as well, Miss Barrineau. I’m afraid we have people sitting at your table. I’m sorry, we didn’t expect you tonight, Bass wanted to leave his message without alienating a good customer. I believe I have an ideal substitute, however. It’s quieter and out of the rush of the main dining area. How’s this?

It’s just what I wanted, Tom. We wanted some privacy tonight, anyway, Garrett assured his friend. This will be just fine.

In that case, I’ll see that your order is taken immediately and I won’t seat anyone else in this room, Bass said as he bowed slightly and left the table.

Garrett was about to stop Bass and tell him it wasn’t necessary for that much privacy but the gesture made him feel important. And, for him, tonight was a night to be important.

William! Hurry into the Library and take Mr. Garrett and Miss Barrineau’s selections for dinner and please make sure he has the utmost privacy tonight. It was Bass’s voice Garrett heard from the other room. William was the oldest employee at Poogan’s Porch.

The white-haired black man had been a waiter for as long as Garrett could remember. Garrett’s father had said that William was the best waiter in the state. The elder Garrett always asked for William when he took his son to eat at Henry’s Restaurant before he joined Tom Bass at Poogan’s.

That’s where Garrett first remembered William, at Henry’s. How long ago was it? Thirty years. Garrett was nine. It was his ninth birthday. It was his first adult birthday party. His father had selected Henry’s. Garrett was allowed to invite 14 of his school friends. Only ten came. Now he didn’t even remember who they were but he did remember William.

All evening long he was called Master Garrett by William. (Not Edward like his father and friends called him.) It was William that brought the biggest birthday cake Garrett had ever seen. He smiled. It was funny, he could remember William and the cake even though he had forgotten the names of his friends who shared the evening.

It seemed that, from that day on, William had played a role in Garrett’s life. Throughout his youth, Sunday was the servants’ day off. Dr. Garrett would take his son out for the noon meal every Sunday, usually at Henry’s. William always did something special for Garrett. Cookies with his ice cream. Candy bunnies on Easter. A cake on subsequent birthdays. No one ever told William when the special days were. At least no one as far as Garrett knew.

The ritual continued until Garrett went off to the Citadel. It wasn’t until after Dr. Garrett died that Garrett found out that his father had arranged for all these little extras that he credited to William. Still, William remained a special person to Garrett. He was the only black at the Elder Garrett’s funeral. Garrett wanted him to sit with the family, but William elected to sit in the last pew. William had lived his entire life in Charleston. He knew the old ways had not died in the city. It was his preference not to cause his friend any embarrassment by sitting in the front of the church.

Good evening, Mistah Garrett. How are you and your lady tonight? It was William’s slow, soft voice that brought Garrett back to the present.

Fine, William. Just Fine. Garrett answered William’s question without thinking.

You remember Louis, don’t you, Mister Garrett. William was gesturing to the younger black man assisting at the table. Louis, filling the water glasses, was William’s youngest grandson and currently an apprentice waiter at Poogan’s.

Why, yes, William. Of course I remember Louis. How are you, Louis? I see that you are following in the steps of your grandfather. Garrett was talking as he noticed that Louis was not as thorough as William in his attention to the details of a